


water and glass

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, i whored myself out for eggs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 04:12:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10868859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: “Jurgen,” someone calls. It sounds familiar, and the field lights turn on with a flicker. Steven’s standing there, hands jammed into his tracksuit jacket pockets, smiling.





	water and glass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tunafish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunafish/gifts).



>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> imk said she'd buy me fancy egg lunch in new york city if i wrote porn and i am but a hungry shipper so

The academy trains later in the day, after school lets out. Jurgen normally doesn’t see this, but it's a tuesday when he gets stuck in the office long after training ends for the day. When he comes out to the field, the light’s already fading. It’s not a glorious sunset on merseyside, just a sort of slow smother where the grey clouds swallow what little is showing of red and orange.

 

The lads on the field are still running, but the ball’s a dark blur between their feet. Jurgen knows it should be only a minute or two more before they turn on the lights at the edge of the fields, but for now, it’s strangely comforting. The muffled yelling, boots thudding by, the academy coaches huddled in an anonymous group by the side.

 

“Jurgen,” someone calls. It sounds familiar, and the field lights turn on with a flicker. Steven’s standing there, hands jammed into his tracksuit jacket pockets, smiling. He winces, turns away from the bright white lights.

 

Jurgen ambles over to stand beside him. “Is he new?”

 

Steven looks at where he’s pointing and shakes his head. “Adams is just here for training, from the under 23’s.”

 

Jurgen steals a look at Steven, marveling a little that Steven’s so quietly in his element. Steven had always wanted to coach, he remembers. Getting a place here in the academy had seemed almost a given, because of Steven’s history and his service and his loyalty. Jurgen remembers his own days coaching Mainz, and feels a pang almost, like too early regret for what he knew was going to happen to Steven.

 

“Oh I see,” Jurgen says, bounces a little on the balls of his feet. Steven gives him an amused look. “Good luck with the match tomorrow!”

 

“Thanks,” Steven says. Jurgen starts to walk away, until he turns and finds Steven following.

“Are you going back?” he says when Jurgen looks at him, questioning.

 

“Back to my office- I forgot something. But after that, home, I think. Don’t want to keep Ulla waiting.”

 

“Oh,” Steven says. He shuffles, then seems to make up his mind. He quickens his footsteps until he’s walking beside Jurgen.

 

Jurgen doesn’t ask why he was coming along because it seemed obvious. They’d never talked, not properly, not since Steven had been appointed a proper youth academy coach. He remembered the first time Steven had come to his office, how he’d stood there in front of the desk, stubbornly refusing to sit. How he’d kept opening his mouth and looking like he wanted to ask Jurgen things, and cut himself off halfway through.

So Jurgen waited, because he understood how it was. He was in the place that Steven wanted to be, and that is never easy for anyone, no matter what they may say otherwise. He shuffled some papers on his desk and made a pretext of looking for documents in his drawer until Steven cleared his throat.

 

He’d still remained standing, like he didn’t want to sit in the seat on the other side of the desk. Jurgen meets his eyes.

 

“Tell me-“ Steven stops. It seems like an effort for him to keep on, but he does, stubbornly, pushing through the words. “Tell me what I have to do.”

 

Jurgen puts the papers down and walks over to him.

 

“You’re doing well,” he says. “You only really need time. To learn.” It wasn’t different from something he would tell his players, from Adam or Jordan who just last week had come into his office and waited without asking to be told what he already knew.

 

Steven shook his head, bullish. “No. I don’t know how to- how to get there. I can pass the tests, I think, but you know we need more than that. I want to be good enough. I have to be.” He looks up and meets Jurgen’s eyes, and Jurgen feels his heart pump tight against his ribcage.

 

“I don’t have the answers, Steven.” Steven walks closer, not even seeming like he knew what he was doing. “I can only tell you what everyone else says.”

 

Theres an agonizing pause. “Alright,” Steven says. He sits down on the desk, next to Jurgen, heavy. Jurgen looks at him, and Steven’s squeezed his eyes shut tight. He had his hands in fists in his lap, and Jurgen doesn’t know what would help. He’s not the man with answers. He’s only here, now, and he only knew how it had felt, when he was in Steven’s place. So he takes Steven’s hand, and Steven looks up at him, eyes open and too unguarded for just a second.

Jurgen doesn’t let go.

 

Steven’s breathing slowly, through his nose, lips pressed tight. Jurgen watches the rise and fall of his chest under the tracksuit. He says, “It’s warm in here.” And almost has to laugh at the absurdity of what he says, what he’s doing.

 

Steven moves his hand away, but before Jurgen can react, he’s unzipping the jacket, and he’s wearing a grey shirt underneath, the training shirt that all the players and the staff have with the tiny liver bird embossed in fine dark thread over his heart. Steven pulls the shirt over his head, and now there’s nothing in the way of his heart, really, so Jurgen reaches out and places his palm, flat, over Steven’s chest. He moves his hand up, slowly, until he’s cupping Steven’s chin and his thumb finds the pulse at Steven’s throat, jumping too fast already.

 

“Steven,” Jurgen says.

“Stevie,” Steven says, smiling lopsided, voice cracking on his own name. It’s almost a joke, really, the way he abruptly reaches out a hand and pulls Jurgen in by the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his too-long hair that he’d been meaning to get Ulla to cut but kept forgetting. It’s not a joke when their lips touch, when Steven makes a sound and lets his legs fall open and suddenly Jurgen is leaning over him, pressing him into the top of the desk.

 

“Coach,” Steven says, and it would be mocking if he hadn’t said it like he did then, grinning, his hands fisted in Jurgen’s tracksuit as though it was his comprise against being flat on his back under Jurgen, and somehow Jurgen is still fully clothed, even though he’s achingly hard and it must show through the thin pants. Steven’s shuffling on top of the desk, shrugging out of his tracksuit bottoms, letting his trainers slide off. Jurgen watches, and wonders how many times Steven had done this, with who. They still hadn’t locked the door. Steven reaches out, hooks two fingers under Jurgen’s waistband, under his boxers.

 

“Kloppo,” he says, in his indecipherable accent, and it seems like a challenge and maybe it was, so Jurgen leans over and opens the bottom drawer of his desk and scrabbles around until he finds the lube. Steven’s eyes go wide, and he seems like he wants to ask why Jurgen had it here, in his office- and Jurgen almost smiles, thinking about another time, another pair of tracksuit pants and Zeljko- until his mind snaps back to the present.

 

Steven’s quiet under him. Jurgen reaches down and strokes him, and Steven’s hands tighten on his shoulders, his breath coming in stutters. He swears, softly, and he screws his eyes up even tighter. Jurgen touches him until Steven’s hitting his shoulder with the heel of his hand. He’d be begging, but Steven didn’t beg. Jurgen pulls away, feeling for the lube bottle.

 

Steven watches as Jurgen pushes into him, not making a sound. Jurgen’s the one swearing now, and he’s glad he can curse in German although Steven no doubt knew everything he’s saying. Steven’s only breathing, harsh and deep and his fingers twist on Jurgen’s collar, and he tugs at Jurgen’s ear when Jurgen eases his way in.

 

“Stevie,” Jurgen says, “Look at me.”

 

Steven does, meeting his eyes like it's a challenge, and Jurgen has to move or he’d just come, even though they’d barely done anything, because Steven looks at him and he’s shuttered and he’s so easy to read. What he had hoped to find out, Jurgen didn’t know. He could only give him this, thrusting haphazardly and too fast, Steven finally giving in and making sounds on the edge of pain. Jurgen comes, breathing into the side of Steven’s hair. He smelled like the training ground, like fresh grass and clean sweat.

 

When he stands up again he sees Steven had already come, but he hadn’t noticed when. He offers Steven a hand, but Steven scoffs, sliding off the table and pulling his pants back on, heedless of the mess. They stand, too close again, not quite touching. Jurgen looks at Steven, who’s not looking at him, though the line of his shoulder was softer, his hands hanging loose by his sides.

“Can I come- tomorrow- will you tell me about Mainz.” Steven says. “I just want to know. To prepare.” And he looks up at Jurgen, and when he smiles he looks incredibly young, nose scrunched.

 

Jurgen nods. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Steven reaches over and touches him briefly, just a brush of his fingers against the back of his hand, before he leaves.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading <3


End file.
